Since I’m in the midst of another busy weekend as a hot sauce vendor with Chef Bluebeard’s Flavor Enhancement Sauces (craft fair today, and a farmer’s markets tomorrow and Monday), I’ve decided to combine the prompt with my two Story A Day pieces for today. The first is a battle between two sisters who have been fighting since childhood. The second is a character trying to sell another character on something. Both were written in stream-of-consciousness style (almost) without editing.
For Solemates (Trueborn Series): This novel chronicles the long-awaited coming-together of a starfaring man and a planetbound woman who have shared a deep telepathic bond since they were children – but have never actually met.
Niaan shivered, despite her coat. The cold and dark were soaking into her, tasting of ashes and a mate she couldn’t feel.
Did Kaivelt yet live, or had her burned to ash while his ship moved toward them, bright as a firestar in the night?
“We must nay stop, sister.”
But Niaan did nay listen. She could nay. All was the searching after Kaivelt, in her mind and in the sky. The firestars held her with their cold heat, and she could nay move forward – until she saw the lifepine.
It was nay near as tall as Osiraan, but it would allow her to see the firestars, and search the skies for the first signs that Kaivelt’s ship was coming – and mayhap some proof that he yet lived.
“Do nay go into the trees, Niaan.”
Vaara moved to stand before her, teeth bared and ruff lifted. She would fight, if Niaan allowed it – but, in that breath, Kaivelt surged into her, and she was aflame, scorched by his Burning. Hotter than the firestars was the force of his being in hers, and it demanded without words or thought.
It needed, with the instinct of Huntlust and the need to survive.
She cried her need, his need out into the night, and drove down and beneath Varaa’s belly, snapping up as she passed, so that the Canivaarii would be distracted and unable to set fang to her. Then she was past, and near to the trunk, barely scaping the snarling jaws of her half-twin and gaining the tree.
Up she went, with nay a care for the wolf below; Vaara would nay climb, even for this, and so she was safe, and alone, and Kaivelt’s flames filled her, seared her blood and her breath with slicing talons of need.
No time for a bower, now. They were all flame, all need, hot fire and cold night air. She found a crook in the tree’s trunk, and wedged herself into it.
And then she gave herself to Kaivelt, and to the fiery weaving between them.
For “Highly Classified Drabbles”, a young woman must come to terms with an irreversible act she committed seventeen years before, and which she was later compelled to forget. I used the prompt words listed below.
Standard Disclaimer: I don’t own them, or profit from them; I just tell their stories, and share them.
“T’Pol?” Jonathan Archer stands by the door, watching her. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to unpack a bombshell on me?”
His name was Jossen, and she had killed him. She can smell the fetid jungle, and the scent of his charred flesh, and she represses the need to retch.
She shivers despite being hot. Illogical that her guilt is a cold thing within her.
“T’Pol? You’re giving all the signals of a person who can’t afford to keep this to yourself. You brought me along because you trust me, and I’m discreet.”
Jossen’s cry echoes, cut short.
Write A Story About A Writer.
This story is the thirty-first in a series of explorations for my upcoming novel, Still Nameless (Kifo Island #8) , which I will be drafting in July.
Today marks the final story in my expedition to learn more about my pending novel’s characters. So it seems fitting that we’ve come full circle, all the way back to what began this series – a postcard of a tropical beach, written in lavender ink, and carrying a shocking, presumably impossible message.
It’s time to meet the author of that postcard, and learn something of the reason for it…
But, before we do that, please let me take this moment to thank everyone who came by to read some or all of this story. Things got a little crazy between physical and fictional realities, and I haven’t been as prompt at responding to comments as I’d like to be.
I’m going to take a few days of (relative) rest, though, and, during that time, comments will be high on my agenda, because I really do love reading and responding to them.
And now, I present…
Ophelia tapped the edge of the postcard on the play table. She looked at the clay, the sinks, the tools, the paints. It was all bright and lovely , and she had it pretty much to herself – the young woman who ran the place was out on the attached beach with her husband and twins.
She hated being here. It was so much like home. But so poisoned, to her mind, by everything that had happened here, ten years ago.
She had to know.
There was no way that Lavender could be alive. She’d held her while she died, while Marilyn was off in the bathroom shooting up her last-ever dose of opioid poison. She’d always wondered which of them had died first, or if it had been at the same time.
She also wondered why that mattered to her. Dead was dead; the end.
Unless, somehow, Lavender was alive.
The bells at the door tinkled, and it opened. A girl who looked barely into her teens came in.
She was blonde, blue-eyed – and she was wearing lavender – a sundress that slipped gently over new curves. She had a wide sunhat with a lavender band, and she looked around the room, then, apparently noticing Ophelia, she came right up to her table.
“I see you got my postcard,” she said, softly, ducking her head. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”
“Why did you write this? Who are you?”
“It would be easier to show you. Can I sit down?”
Ophelia nodded. She hadn’t expected a child – or someone who looked almost like Marilyn brought back to life the way she’d looked in some of those old family portraits in that mausoleum of a house where she’d grown up. Maybe she should be on her guard – but this girl could be Lavender – if Lavender had been a quick developer…
“I brought you a little gift. Maybe that will help me explain.” The girl reached into the handbag slung over her shoulder – it was made of denim, and trimmed with embroidered lavender flowers. She pulled out a long box, gift wrapped in silver paper with lavender hearts, and tied with a satin bow, also lavender. It seemed a bit like overkill, until Ophelia remembered being this age, and how forcefully she’d identified with certain things.
She took the package the girl offered. “Thank you.” A pause, and the child ducked her head. “With all my heart. Please open it.”
Ophelia did as the girl asked. Inside was a bed of – what else? – lavender tissue paper. When she lifted it, she discovered a purple stethoscope.
“I don’t understand. I’m not a doctor or a nurse.” She didn’t add that she also didn’t see what any of this had to do with Lavender.
“But you had a baby niece. Ten years ago. She died.”
“How do you know this? And why did you write this postcard?”
“I – didn’t know how to meet you. And I wanted to.”
“It’s been ten years. I thought you might want to hear your niece’s heart beating.”
What does the girl mean by that?
Who is she?
How does she know about Lavender?
Watch the video and write an Ugly Duckling story.
Standard disclaimer. I don’t own them, I don’t profit from them, but they insist on telling me their stories, so I’m sharing them with you.
Writing Group Prompt List:
“Am I Psychotic?”
“Am I psychotic?”
T’Pol sat on her cushion, staring into the flame. Her forbidden excursion had caused a degradation in her logic; she was no longer acceptable for the Consulate. She should be tested in accordance with scientific theory. Logically, she required support.
She rose; went to her bed. Her human’s presence was tempestuous and obstinate, moving through her in flaming waves that seared through her awareness. It was seductive at a level too deep for logic to be relevant. Without him, life would lack something beyond naming.
Real or imagined, he was her flame, her nectar. All was well.
IS T’Pol psychotic?
Will she adjust to the human presence in her mind?
Is that presence real, or imagined?
Come back tomorrow for another 100 word installment, or visit the fanfiction.net series link!